


Touch Me

by CeruleanDarkangelis



Series: Without Words [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse of italics, Dancing, Dirty Dancing, First Kiss, John is Perfect, Light Angst, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Premature Ejaculation, Red Pants, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is a drama queen, Songfic, but it's gonna be okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 13:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanDarkangelis/pseuds/CeruleanDarkangelis
Summary: "I raise my eyes to find him watching me. It’s the first time we’ve properly looked at each other all night. Our eyes hold for a moment as the pressure inside the darkened backseat builds rapidly to near crushing levels. I have the urge to reach out and touch him, lightly, with just one finger. I don’t know precisely what would happen next, but I’m certain it would set off an unstoppable chain reaction. Better to wait until we’re safe at home where the detonation can be contained."





	Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

> So I know it's been a while. What can I say, my muse is slow and stubborn. But then this song found me and I couldn't stop thinking about what happened after Body Language, which you should probably read first but I don't guess it's really necessary. Just go read it. It's short. I'll wait.
> 
> There. Now this will make much more sense. 
> 
> Innumerable thanks to [Itsallfine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine) for confidence-building when this story was still just a few paragraphs long,  
> [alexaprilgarden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden) for telling me what did and didn't work, and as always, [leyley09](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leyley09/pseuds/leyley09) for her deft use of The Red Pen of Death. Commas are bastards, y'all.
> 
> And, because I love to share my music, the song for this one is Touch by MAALA (link in the text)

 

 

 

“John, please. Take me home.”

The words leave my mouth without conscious thought. I feel John shudder and moan, even though I can't hear him. John immediately moves from behind me, grabbing my hand as he passes and making as much of a straight path for the exit as he can manage, tossing both our headphones on the nearest empty table. My grip on his hand is firm, much more so than necessary, but he’s holding on just as possessively, so that’s all right. I move to retrieve my coat, but he grabs my shoulders and spins me back toward the exit.

“I’ll get it for you,” he growls, the sound sending a palpable tingle down my spine. “You get us a cab. Quickly.”

I barely manage a nod before I’m out into the semi-quiet of the London summer. The balmy warmth of the night air should feel like a salve on my prickling skin, yet I’m shivering. My clothing feels restrictive and scratchy, but it might be the only thing holding me together at the moment. I can still feel the burning imprint of John’s hand in my own; I curl my fingers around the phantom sensation and flag down a passing cab just as John appears with my coat. He gives me an odd look as I put it on but makes no comment.

Once we’re settled and speeding toward home, I raise my eyes to find him watching me. It’s the first time we’ve properly looked at each other all night. Our eyes hold for a moment as the pressure inside the darkened backseat builds rapidly to near crushing levels. I have the urge to reach out and touch him, lightly, with just one finger. I don’t know precisely what would happen next, but I’m certain it would set off an unstoppable chain reaction. Better to wait until we’re safe at home where the detonation can be contained. I send one last smoldering look his way as an assurance of interest, and with a slow, deep breath I make it as obvious as possible that I’m turning my gaze toward the window simply to settle my nerves.

A bit of a deception, that. My mental agitation level is minimal. This particular outcome has always been a possibility (simply because it was not _impossible_ ), no matter how remote the chances of manifestation. No, the issue that currently needs addressing is my traitorous transport.

John’s touch. I could identify his touch upon any part of my body, independent of any of my other senses. I fancy that I’ve memorized the feel of his individual fingerprints, but that’s impossible when I can identify his touch even through several layers of clothing. I revel in it, storing away each fleeting sensation in my own private collection. But those are casual touches, such as any two flatmates may share in passing. A delicate brush of fingertips when passing a cup of tea; a brisk brush of an arm to dislodge a stray bit of lint on a sleeve; a firm press to apply a plaster over the most recent row of stitches.

This new _johntouch_ is an unknown variable for which I must recalibrate. Never before have I allowed myself to be so vulnerable in his presence. It’s a testament to how lost in sensation I was that he was able to lay a hand on me before revealing his identity. Always so surprising, my John. How cleverly he has bypassed my defenses, built specifically to keep him at a certain distance, safe from my voracious wanting. Now that I know that he neither needs nor desires such safety, I must dismantle the walls that have become automatic.

Possibly the nerve-settling move wasn’t such a ruse after all. With my mental armor removed, the physical barrier of wool is woefully inadequate but nevertheless necessary. I feel like a soap bubble, thin-skinned and destroyed with a touch. John’s presence across the seat emits a throbbing, crackling energy, intimate as if he were pressed to my side, like the iron in my bloodstream has aligned itself to his true north.

I’m not nearly as oblivious to sexual cues as everyone likes to believe, even if I have no _practical_ experience. I know (or rather, I _hope_ I know) where this evening is headed. Surely my untouched state won’t be an insurmountable obstacle for John, not if I’m able to remain clear-headed enough to explain my desire to alter said state. It is imperative that I retain sufficient control over my pathetic _feelings_ . (Dull.) He can’t know that I would gladly pull my heart beating from my chest and hand it to him on the spot. It will be fine. Those walls have been in place far longer. He’s obviously amenable to a physical encounter. It’s enough. It will be enough. It _has_ to be.

Back to the matter at hand. It would be helpful to be able to catalogue the feeling of John’s skin, his lips, his body - this may be my only chance - before we move into an arena in which I have no practical experience. Let him see me with some modicum of control before we reach the point where I will be overwhelmed. If he believes I’m not utterly useless at sex, perhaps he can be tempted into further trysts.

An idea presents itself. Ah, yes. Perfect, and not before time. The cab pulls to a stop. I reach for my wallet (courtesy cannot but help my plan), but John is already tossing money at the driver and pushing at my hip. This is obviously meant to be a signal to get moving, but the contact is electric. I freeze in place though my hand moves to cover his, verification that he is, indeed, touching me again and so very close to where I want him. My eyes find his again, and the look on his face is almost enough to make me expire on the spot.

Oh god, how he wants me. John wants _me_ with every fibre of his being. He breaks this frozen tableau to speak through clenched teeth.

“Sherlock. If we don’t get out of this cab right _fucking_ now, I will not answer for the consequences.”

It’s enough to get me moving, clumsy fingers (why am I trembling already) fumbling at the door of the cab. (Control. Remember the plan.) A few deep breaths as I unlock the front door, and we’re bursting over the threshold. John’s already reaching for me as he kicks the door shut negligently behind him. I intercept his hands on their way to my waist and hold them in mine. His hands are far warmer than usual and slightly sweaty. This evidence of his nervousness is stupidly endearing (tightness in my chest) and somehow calming.

“Upstairs, John.” I manage. I had wanted this to come out in my deepest, rumbling tones, but instead it emerges a bit high and breathless. Doesn’t matter; the effect on John is the same either way, apparently.

Before I can release his hands, John is off like a shot, swarming up the stairs with me in tow. I barely make it inside the flat before John slams the door shut and pushes me roughly against it, startling a gasp out of me. My knees turn to water; the only thing keeping me upright is the fierce grip of John’s hands, pressing my hips back into the door as if I might float away. (Embarrassing. I’ve got to do better than this.) I’m trapped between the door and John’s body, pressed against him from knees to chest. For a moment my face burns with mortification at the feeling of my (oh wow, really very intense, dear god) erection pressing into the slightly soft flesh of his belly. The blush on my cheeks transforms to one of arousal, however, when he undulates his body against mine, sliding one of his rock hard thighs between my own. An equally insistent erection digs into my hip, sending reverberations from my bollocks all the up to the tip of my cock and causing me to buck against him.

With a snarl, his hands slowly (oh god so slowly) trail up my sides, his scorching touch leaving devastation in its wake. Even through my admittedly flimsy v-neck, his touch on my body is like petrol on a bonfire. Before I know it, my hands are pinned to the door above my head, and John’s eyes flick down to my lips. We’ve not even kissed yet, but already they feel swollen, ripe. His face is so close, so incredibly close, and getting closer. I can see the copper flecks in the deep indigo of his eyes. He stops just shy of caressing my lips with his, and I suppress a pitiful whine.

“We’re upstairs now, Sherlock.” John breathes into my parted lips, barely above a whisper, his voice like sandpaper rasping across my sensitized skin, full of gravel and fire. I can taste him already, the faint flavor of beer on his breath (intoxicating). “What next?”

Yes. My clever John. My conductor of light; always providing me with exactly what I need, regardless of whether or not he’s consciously aware. This is my opportunity to take control of the situation and maintain it as long as possible before we reach the inevitable tipping point. I want to explore every centimeter of John, run experiments on how the taste of his skin changes from one spot to the next, from one moment to the next. I want to compare the hair on his thighs to the trail below his navel. I want to find the outer limits of his capacity for pleasure. It’s a tall order for a first time, but a man can dream.

I slide my hands from his grip and bring them down, running them into into the hair at the back of John’s head, the short, silky strands tickling between my fingers, his skull (precious) cupped in my palms. I halve the distance between us, running the tip of my nose up the side of his, still, _still_ not touching his lips with mine, letting the warmth of my exhale feather across his mouth. Distance is key.

“Dance with me.”

John drops his hands to his hips and pointedly lifts one eyebrow as if he’s been taking lessons from me. “You want to dance.” It’s not quite a question, but it’s not exactly a statement either.

A smirk. “Yes, John.” I trail the pads of my fingers down both sides of his neck, feel his pulse thundering through his veins, pressing my middle finger into the groove behind his jaw, the short stubble catching in the grooves of my fingerprints. Down over his collarbones, tracing the surprisingly delicate arch beneath his skin. Slowly, so slowly, down swollen pecs, pebbled nipples etching flames across my palms even through the thin cotton of his button-down. Light as a feather down his stomach, a barely-there brush across his hips, stiff as a board. Gone.

My fingers curl in on themselves at my sides. (Hold steady, old boy.)

I toss a coy look at John from under my lowered eyelashes (which I will never admit to having practiced) as I sidestep him, striding across the room to the speaker dock on the desk and pulling my phone from my pocket. He pivots in place to keep me within sight. Possibly just to watch my arse as I walk. I toss in a perceptible sway to my hips, just in case. With a lightning quick blur of fingers, music fills the flat. Such a…[suggestive beat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOyIAAVz0bg). My hips continue their sway as I bend slightly (remember your angles) to place the phone on the dock, feeling his eyes caress the long lines of my body.

I turn to face John and find him already in motion toward me, his ocean dark eyes promising ruin.

_Lights off,_  
_don't stop_  
_In silence,_  
_one sided_  
_I felt your touch,  
won't find compromise_

The lyrics of the song finally penetrate my arousal soaked fog. Oh _hell_. In the heady distraction of finally having John’s body under my hands I’ve chosen a song that, while possessed of a distinctly filthy beat, is perhaps a touch more honest than I would have preferred.

 _Why am I holding on to the nothing left_  
_What am I going to say at the end_  
_Holding left me at the very edge_ _  
Find another desire_

It’s okay. It’s fine. The plan is to retain control of this situation as long as possible. Surely I will be able to swamp him in enough sensation to distract him from a few song lyrics. I throw myself two stumbling steps forward and meet him in the middle of the sitting room, inches apart, with my hand settled firmly on his chest. He pushes no farther, but gives not a centimeter. He simply freezes, hands fisted at his sides. I can feel the _thudpulsebeat_ of his heart, the deep tide of his breath, and underneath it all, coiled, barely restrained _need_.

Oh god. Hips. Swaying hips. Yes, good. Pull back, feel my knees loosen, lift my ribcage, and let my hips swing unhindered. See him swallow back the urge to grab, to take, watch his hips move in time with mine, as if we’re connected by chains. Got him.

 _How did it all change when I felt your touch?  
_ _How did it all change when I felt your touch?_

My hands run over John’s shoulders, one smooth and rounded, one knotted and rough. Even through his shirt, the contrast between the two different types of strength under my palms sends a pulse skittering beneath my skin. Biceps twitch with the urge to move, but by the time they do, I’m down to his bare forearms, over knobbly wrist bones, and I have his hands trapped within mine. I bring them up to my lips, running his knuckles across my slack mouth, lips slightly parted. It’s not quite a kiss, but I capture his gaze like that’s exactly what I’m doing. He doesn’t need to know that I’m concentrating on the sensation of the tiny hairs on the backs of his hands brushing across my lips.

I pointedly return his hands to his sides with as imperious a look as I can muster. It must work because John pauses for a moment and then gives a small nod. I release his hands, and they begin to move with his body but don’t reach for me. Good enough.

 _How did it all change when I felt your touch?  
_ _How did it all change when I felt your touch?_

I allow the music to pull me toward my next destination, my hand trailing across his abdomen, feeling the muscles twitch as I circle around him. Back to his shoulders, then begins the climb up the back of his neck, fingertips drifting through the down at his nape. (John's hair is out of regulation.) His head pushes back into my palm as my fingers clutch in on themselves (grabby, greedy), dragging my fingernails gently across his scalp. A quiet sigh almost escapes my notice (unacceptable, pay attention). I step in closer, the better to hear and catalogue any further noises, and find myself literally breathing down the back of his neck. My other arm comes around his waist, pulling him closer so that I can tuck my nose into the little nook behind his earlobe. The tightly held tension in his frame drains away, and I can’t tell if I’m molding myself around his body or if he’s simply melting back into mine.

I use my grip in his hair to tilt his head ever so slightly to the side so I can run the tip of my nose up the curve of his ear, this small, intimate space of John’s body. My tongue flicks forward, gathering the taste of him quickly and efficiently so that I can roll it around my mouth as I breathe him in, savoring his aroma and flavor like a connoisseur. I’ve timed it just right so that the involuntary twitch of his pelvis folds into the dance, adding a touch of grind to our rhythm.

_Unravelled, ignited_  
_Held down, eyes shut_  
_Felt our time subside_

The music intrudes once again, and I begin to panic, just a bit. With his body pressed to mine like this, there’s no way to avoid having my (dear _lord_ ) rather prominent erection press into the cleft of his arse. Belatedly, I remember that this is not a problem tonight. That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? (Stop thinking about it, stop it. The plan, remember.) Skin. I need skin.

In this position, it’s easy to reach around John’s body to unbutton his shirt, the motion as familiar as taking off my own. Quick as a wink, his buttons are undone, and his stomach and chest are bare under my fingertips. My palms skate up the slightly furry trail of hair leading out of his jeans, across the quivering, velvet-soft skin on his belly up to his firm chest, pushing his shirt further open as I go. The touch of my thumbs to his tightly furled nipples ( _christ_ ) sends gooseflesh racing across his skin in waves (mine as well). Perhaps if there is time later, I can explore these fascinating nubs and their response to differing types of touch. (My mouth, oh _god_ , I want to feel them with my tongue. _Focus!_ )

I draw his shirt up past his shoulders, down his arms, and off. Without pausing (I know if I don’t continue on, I will get hopelessly distracted), my hands return to the waistband of his jeans, flicking open the button and lowering the zip.

“Oh _Christ_.” It’s almost a whisper, shaky as a newborn kitten. His head droops forward onto his chest, further exposing the nape of his neck as he apparently loses his battle with the urge to grab, his hands reaching back to steady himself against me. His grip on my thighs is crushing, almost painful, but there’s too many pleasure chemicals (adrenalinedopamineoxytocinserotonin) floating through my bloodstream to feel anything but triumph at having broken his control.

_When I felt your touch_  
_Make me feel this time_  
_Spoke like empty words_  
_You’re still on my mind  
And oh I wish I felt it_

My hands push down into his jeans along the front of his thighs, avoiding (fuckfuck _fuck_ ) the straining erection already pushing through the gap of his open zip, feeling the muscles flex under his skin as he moves with me, against me. The denim bunches up around my wrists, finally yielding and falling to pool around his ankles. Goal accomplished, I concentrate my attention on the tickling of the hair of his thighs against my greedy palms.

Trailing my hands back up toward his hips, I once again encounter the fabric of his pants. Bit of a surprise, that. I had always assumed that he was a wearer of traditional cotton boxers (stupid, _stupid_ ). The criminally soft material under my hands hugs the curves and planes of his most intimate flesh in a way that makes me feel irrationally jealous of a piece of underwear.

I make the mistake of peeking over his shoulder to see them, and I have to slam my eyes shut tight at the resultant blast of desire. Too late; the damage is done. I already have a photographic image burned into the walls of my mind palace, the outline of his erection, covered in the deep crimson cotton of his briefs, a spot of damp crowning it like a jewel. (Oh shit, oh shit, oh _hell_.) My hands claw at his pants, fingertips digging into his hips, hard enough to bruise, and I can’t help the rush of satisfaction, hoping that they _will_ bruise, will mark him as mine, my fingerprints imprinted on his flesh. He inhales sharply at the pain, followed by a moan so deep that it vibrates through his back into my chest where it travels straight to my cock, and if I don’t get my clothes off they’re going to strangle me, I can’t bloody breathe, oh god, breathing’s boring, but I may actually pass out if I don’t get more oxygen, oh god, oh god….

I tear my hands away from his body to divest myself of my shirt, kicking my shoes and socks off in random directions, skinning off my (stupidly tight, why are they so _tight_ ) jeans. I straighten up to find John turning to face me, kicking away his (red, oh god) pants and reaching for me with both hands.

 _How did it all change when I felt your touch?  
_ _How did it all change when I felt your touch?_

Being confronted with an entirely nude and extremely aroused John Watson is an experience for which I have no frame of reference and therefore no adequate defense. I mourn for the lost opportunity to study more of John’s body, but I knew this point was coming sooner or later, and to be painfully honest, I lasted far longer than I thought possible.  

His hands land on my skin (warm, callused, strong, fire), fitting themselves to the spaces between my ribs. Sensation piles up too fast for me to take in, and I give myself over to it.  My breath stutters from my body, my arms (so recently under my conscious control) fling themselves around his shoulders, and my legs go wibbly underneath me. John’s hands relocate to my arse, and I feel his knees begin to bend. I worry for a moment with the little brain power I have left that we will both fall to the floor in a graceless heap, but he once again surprises me by straightening his legs (how is he so _strong_?) and lifting me, tucking me against his body. I muster the strength to cling to him like a limpet, all my long spidery limbs wrapped around his sturdy, compact body. I use what leverage I have to wriggle in his arms, enjoying the glide of his skin against mine, frustrated that I neglected to remove my pants before he grabbed me. His cock is pressed against my perineum through the silky fabric, and I may possibly lose my mind.

Dimly, I hear him call my name. “Sherlock! Oh fuck, Sherlock, you need to slow your breathing. Please, Sherlock, shhhhhh, I’ve got you, please.” He sounds worried, John should never sound worried, he’s a lovely doctor, I should listen to him, he’s my friend, my best friend, he’ll take care of me, I feel light headed, oh yes, I really should listen, try to calm down.

With a tremendous effort, I stop my frantic movements and attempt to concentrate. (In, onetwo, out, onetwothreefour.) Again. Again. My breath slows, and I can finally feel something other than the howling, clawing need within me. So much silky skin pressed against mine, hot breath panting against the frantic pulse in my throat, strong arms holding me tight and safe.

“Oh Christ, Sherlock, oh my god, you beauty. Look at me, please?”

I’m tempted to keep my face hidden, but at this point I am willing to give him anything he wants, up to and including my life. I slowly remove my face from the curve of his good shoulder and pull back enough that I can gaze at him through my eyelashes, my face still tilted slightly down. I imagine that to him it appears coquettish, but in reality a direct look would be too much, too revealing. I’m clinging to him tight enough that he is able to release one hand to push my fringe away from where it’s hanging in my face. The concern in his voice from a moment ago is reflected in his forehead, the tightness of the skin around his eyes, the slight frown turning down the corners of his mouth. I want to touch him there, smooth away the tension in his face, but I can’t bring myself to let go my grip on his body.

His hand slides to cup my cheek, cool now compared to my furious blushing. “Better?”

I shut my eyes again to block out the sight of his tender care lest I mistake it for something more (sentiment, stupid, _stupid_ ). I nod hesitantly, not trusting my voice. Between the heavy breathing (even though I’m no longer actively hyperventilating) and the fine tremor running through my muscles at the effort of not squirming, there’s no possible way I can get actual words out of my mouth with any sort of dignity.

I feel a light pressure at the corner of my jaw, pulling me forward, and before I can process what it means, there is the faintest brush of lips against my mouth. Slightly chapped, soft, surprisingly lush for the thinness of his lips. ( _!!!!_ ) Frozen in shock, I’m unable to respond right away, and he presses back undeterred, once, twice more, shockingly chaste little pecks until I’m able to return a gentle pressure. Faint rasp of stubble, followed by an unexpected nibble to my lower lip that makes me jolt slightly, intensifying the tremor in my limbs.

I’ve miscalculated, badly. This pause in momentum necessitated by my frenzied transport hasn’t abated my arousal at all. It simply waits, wavering on its peak, ready to tip me over into oblivion at the slightest stimulus. A gasp parts my lips, and he immediately takes advantage, capturing that same lower lip between his own to massage away the tiny sting from his teeth. A swipe of his tongue across my lip sets my body quaking, strong enough that it spreads to him as well, threatening to topple us both.

His tongue darts between my lips to slide sinuously against mine, causing me to moan directly into his mouth. He answers with a whimper which I swallow down, down, down into my stomach where it detonates like a bomb, a tsunami, an earthquake, and my entire being explodes through my pores, every place where skin connects to skin an epicenter of the most exquisite pleasure, oh god, I can’t take this, it’s too much, too much skin, too much pleasure, too much John, never enough, never -- “Oh god John, oh god, oh fuck, fuck, JOHN!!!”

For one joyous, wonderful, shining, terrible moment my mind is…. empty. No flood of data, no deductions, no thoughts, just…. John. Touching me, holding me, supporting me.

Oh.

Oh _shit_. Reality begins to assert itself in bits and pieces, and the first thing I realize is that I’ve fallen backward, my back arched into a painful curve, my head dangling loosely from my neck. John has one hand clenched into the curve of my arse, the other supporting my spine so that I don’t fall to the floor, his legs braced to counter my weight. I have at least managed to maintain an iron grip on his biceps, hard as oak under my grasping fingers. While his cock is still hard beneath me, mine is mortifyingly soft, and my pants are soaked between us.

Not good. Very, very, extremely not good. I flail a bit while hauling myself upright, and my legs thud down to the floor as I rip myself away from his grasp. Rubbery in the aftermath of my orgasm, they cannot take my weight yet, and I crumple to the floor in a broken, miserable heap, my hands flying up to cover my flaming face.

“No, no, no, no.” I can’t even run away to hide in my shame. One kiss. One simple kiss was all it took to tear me apart, and there’s no way he will ever touch me again. (Stupid, _stupid_ , to think that I wouldn’t ruin this somehow.) A hot prickling sensation gathers in the corners of my eyes, and my humiliation is complete as the first fat tear tips over to trail down my face.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay?” John’s voice comes from far closer than it should. I risk a peek through my fingers to see him kneeling beside me, reaching out to touch my shoulder, that same look of concern tightening his (beautiful) face.

I twitch my shoulder away from his questing fingers, and there’s a touch of confusion shadowing his face now as well. I don’t want his fucking pity. I want him to go away, I want this to have never happened, I want to crawl inside his head and delete this entire night from his mind. I make a valiant effort to come up with a cutting remark, something to make him leave, to overshadow my pathetic display with anger, but my brain is still too sluggish to be properly acerbic. I can’t even do that right, and the thought makes me sob out loud, giving up.

“Of course I’m not okay, John! I just…. and we…. all you did was kiss me and I….. oh HELL! I so wanted you to touch me, and now you’ll never touch me again and I’m useless and pathetic and…..” I trail off, wretched. There’s nothing more I can say, after all.

A huff of breath against my shoulder, and I register the laughter coming from John’s mouth. I stare at him in shock. I expect laughter from most people, but not John. John is never knowingly cruel, especially to me. He spots the look on my face, and it only makes him laugh harder, but he reaches for me as well and manages to gasp, “No, Sherlock, no, I’m not….” Giggles. Hands on my shoulders, moving to embrace me. I try to pull away once more, but John’s strength brooks no argument. He tugs me close to enfold me in his arms, my still-warm face tucked into the protective curve of his throat once more. “I’m not laughing at you. Well, I am, a bit, but not for that.”

“What on earth can you possibly mean?” I manage to sound convincingly indignant (not really) in spite of the fact that my skin is revelling in the contact with his body once more.

“Do you seriously not know how mind-bendingly fucking _gorgeous_ that was? Christ, I almost came just _watching_ you. It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. And to know that you want me that much, is…… I never could have imagined that. Ever. That someone as beautiful and brilliant and perfect and unattainable as you could ever want someone like me, that I can affect you so much… Christ, it was perfect, love. Just perfect.”

There’s simply no doubting the sincerity of his words. John’s always been a terrible liar anyhow, and even through my embarrassment, I can hear the ring of truth in every syllable. I feel the slick wetness on my face grow heavier, more and more tears flowing freely, this time in relief and hope. Removing my face from the protection of his neck once more, I glance up to find him looking down at me, huddled and limp in his arms. The look on his face gives me the courage to ask, softly, “Love? You called me love.”

Another giggle. “Of course I did, you mad git. Don’t tell me you didn’t deduce it from the first moment I touched you at the club.”

Abashed, I drop my eyes to my hands, fidgeting in my lap, itching to touch but still timid in the face of so much sentiment. “I could tell you wanted me. Physically, I mean. I didn’t dare hope for anything more.”

“Oh, Sherlock, love. My darling. My sweetheart, my perfect beautiful love.” His hands slide up to cup my face (so careful, reverent, as if I’m fragile) between his palms, lifting me to once again look into his eyes, thumbs brushing feather-soft across my flushed cheekbones to wipe away the tears.

“Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment we met. I plan on loving you for years to come, and there’s nothing on this earth that could make me not want to touch you forever, starting now.”

He stands, pulling me to my feet as well, ushering me through the darkened flat towards my bedroom.

Oh.

_OH._

Well, that’s all right, then.


End file.
